Dean HC
by annonwrite
Summary: A collection of one-shots written for various memes and challenges on LJ. All include sick, injured, or otherwise hurt Dean. Most are hurt/comfort indulgences with little plot...my favorite!
1. Peace Offering

Prompt: Dean dislocates his shoulder and Sam pops it back in, but Dean also has a cold that's making him sneeze a lot, and every time he does, it hurts his bad shoulder. Sam notices eventually, and carefully coaxes Dean into wearing a sling.

"Peace Offering"

"Ready?" Sam asks. The Impala is not his favorite location for putting Dean's dislocated shoulder back into place. A bed or even a couch would be better. But for now this will have to do.

Dean takes another swig from his flask and nods. "Count of three?" he asks, voice tight with pain.

"Count of three," Sam echoes.

But before he even gets to "one," he's pushing and pulling Dean's arm, expertly snapping it back into alignment. He used to go on "two," but Dean caught on to that. Now he doesn't count at all.

"Fuck," Dean breathes, cradling his arm and leaning his head forward to rest on the dashboard. "Shit…Sammy…_Fuck_."

Sam just waits, knowing that relief will come. Sure enough, a minute or two later, the tension slowly begins to drain from Dean's body. He sits back, sagging against the seat, wigging fingers and rolling his wrist.

"Better?" Sam asks.

"Better," Dean echoes. He sniffles and drags the back of his good arm across his nose. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Sam turns the keys in the ignition and starts driving. They're only a few miles down the road when Dean squirms and starts breathing all funny.

Sam gives him a corner-eyed glance. "What's wrong?"

"Gotta sneeze," Dean says, his mouth agape and his face all scrunched.

"What's stopping you?"

"It's…" Dean inhales sharply. "Gonna…" Another snuffle. "Shoulder…"

Oh.

Dean lets out a sneeze, quickly followed by an arm-clutching curse-fest that ends with a few words Sam's pretty sure aren't even English. Because, yes, Dean's shoulder is back in place. But the muscles and tendons are going to be tender for a few days. And Dean's got this cold thing going on. No fever or cough, barely anything to bat an eye at. Except that now every sneeze is going to hurt. Like a _bitch_.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

But Dean's doing the snuffle, sharp inhale thing again, and even though he obviously tries not to sneeze, he does. "Fuck," Dean says in response.

"Maybe we should get you some cold medicine, huh?"

Dean sniffles and wipes his nose again. "Just drive, bitch."

So Sam drives and cringes every time Dean starts to do the heavy-pre-sneeze-breathing thing. Once, Dean delays the sneeze for almost 20 minutes. He breathes carefully and sniffles and pinches his nose like that will somehow keep the sneeze in. But then he explodes with six, count 'em, _six_ sneezes and a mess of snot and pain and Sam can't take it anymore. He takes the next exit.

"Where're we going?" Dean asks when he finally stops swearing and opens his eyes.

"We need gas," Sam says, even though they don't. Instead of pulling up at the gas station, he pulls up at a Walgreens pharmacy and marches inside before Dean can ask any questions.

He gathers what he needs, adding one last item at the register, pays, and heads back out to the car.

"What, did you run out of tampons?" Dean asks, but the insult doesn't do much to mask the pain he's in.

Sam doesn't respond, just opens the bag and removes the box of cold medicine. He pops two pills out of the blister packaging, opens a bottle of water, and holds both in Dean's direction. "You gotta stop sneezing, man."

Dean unhappily contemplates the pills for a minute or two, then uses his good arm to shove them in his mouth and chase them with a few swigs of water.

Sam is already digging through the bag again. This time he removes a larger box. He tears it open and removes the contents.

"What's that?" Dean asks, sniffling.

"An immobilizing sling. It will keep your arm from flying all over the place when you sneeze your brains out. Should help with the pain."

Before Dean can say anything else, his nose is twitching and he's breathing heavy and this time he can't even delay it. He sneezes violently and clutches his arm even tighter to his chest.

"Come on," Sam coaxes, using the distraction of pain to slip the fabric of the sling under Dean's arm. He adjusts the straps tight against Dean's neck and shoulder. When he finishes and asks, "How's that?" Dean's only answer is a _scowl_.

Sam nods. "I was afraid of that." He fishes the last item out of the plastic bag and holds up familiar yellow and brown packaging. "That's why I got you a peace offering." He tears the packaging open and places it in Dean's good hand.

Dean doesn't say or do anything for a minute. Sam reaches over as if to steal one of the M&Ms, but Dean clutches the bag to his chest. "Mine," he says before dumping a few candies in his mouth.

Sam laughs. "All right, dude. Enjoy." He pulls back out on the road.

It takes a while before Dean sneezes again, and when he does, the pained reaction is not anywhere near as severe as it was before.

"Better?" Sam asks, motioning to the sling.

"No," Dean says, but it's obviously a lie.

As they drive, Dean's sneezes become fewer and farther between. The cold medicine must be working, and he seems to be in less pain. Sam thinksDean might actually be asleep before he mumbles, "S'my?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Thanks for the M&Ms."

Sam reads between the lines and smiles. "You're welcome."


	2. Take the Money and Run

Prompt: Dean's all colded up and feverish and sleepy and high from his medicine. He needs Sam to wrap him in blankets and snuggle him up and tell him a story. A STORY, SAM.

AN: I recommend going to YouTube and listening to "Take the Money and Run" by The Steve Miller Band while you read this one.

"Take the Money and Run"

There are two different versions of sick-Dean.

In the first version, Dean is stoic. He muffles sneezes and hides winces of pain. He runs water in an effort to mask the sound of puking. He tries too hard to be funny. Sometimes he gets sick enough that he breaks and admits to needing antibiotics or a day of sleep. But most of the time he gets better and they pretend like it never happened.

In the second version, Dean is whiny. He bitches. He complains. He is impossible to please. He acts like a spoiled four-year-old.

For the past two days, Sam has been dealing with the latter. He's standing outside the motel room, grocery bags in hand, giving himself a mental pep-talk. He won't kill Dean. Even if he is awake and aggravating, Sam will not kill his brother. Will. Not.

Sam opens the motel room door without making a sound. If Dean is asleep, there's no fucking way he's going to wake him. Through the glow of a bedside lamp, Sam watches the lump on the bed that is his brother. No movement. The double dose of Nyquil must have worked.

Sam tiptoes across the room. He's looking forward to a nap himself because Dean had them up for most of the night. He sets the grocery bags on the desk at a painstakingly slow rate. He's almost home free when one of the bags rustles.

And Dean stirs. "S'mmy? That you?"

Fuck. "Go back to sleep, Dean."

Dean flops dramatically onto his back. "Can't sleep," he says, drawing the "e" out into a whine.

"Yes, you can." Sam walks over to the edge of the bed and palms Dean's forehead. Fever's still up. "You're sick and drugged. You can sleep. Close your eyes."

Instead of obeying, Dean sneezes four times, which sends him into a coughing fit. "Dying," he gasps out when he's finished.

"Yeah. I know."

Dean shivers and looks up at Sam. "You're tall. When'd you get so tall?"

"Last week."

Dean grunts. Shivers. Sneezes.

"Hey, I got you tomato soup. You want a bowl? Might warm you up. Feel good on your throat."

"Campbells?" Dean asks.

"Yes."

"Salty?"

Sam rolls his eyes. Yeah, he made the mistake of buying low-sodium soup one time. It won't happen again. "Salty."

"Okay."

What the motel advertises as a "kitchenette" is really just a microwave on top of a TV stand shoved in the corner of the room. It takes a little coaxing, but Sam gets the ancient thing to work.

"S'mmy?" Dean asks.

"Yes, Dean?"

"There're bugs on the ceiling."

Sam glances up. "No there aren't. It's just your fever or the medicine."

Dean coughs. "Damn bugs," he chokes out.

When the microwave finishes, Sam removes the bowl. The soup is steaming and smells good. He carries it over to Dean's bed. "Sit up," he tells him.

Dean tries to lift himself onto his elbows. He coughs twice and sneezes once. He does something flaily with his legs under the covers. Then he flops his head to the side and mutters, "Can't," sounding like the most defeated person in the whole entire world.

Fuck.

Sam closes his eyes, breathes through his nose, and reminds himself again that he will not kill his brother. Won't. With a sigh, he sets the bowl down and tugs Dean into a seated position with pillows behind his back and head. The change in position seems to loosen up the shit in Dean's nasal passages because he starts this obnoxious, disgusting sniffling. Sam digs through one of the grocery bags until he finds the box of tissues. The expensive ones with lotion because Dean keeps whining about how much his nose hurts. "Blow."

"Dying," Dean repeats, six tissues later.

"Yeah," Sam says, because whatever, at least the sniffling stopped.

He holds out the bowl of soup. Dean eyes it for a minute before wrinkling his nose.

"What?" Sam demands.

"Looks gross. 'M not hungry."

"Dean, I swear…" Sam starts, but stops himself. It's not worth the energy. "Fine. Then will you please just go to sleep? You need to sleep. I need to sleep. You need to get better."

"Too cold."

Sam grabs all of the blankets off the other bed and dumps them on top of Dean. "There. Now go to sleep, okay?"

Dean snuggles down into the blankets. Coughs. Sneezes. But closes his eyes.

Sam is just finishing cleaning up the uneaten soup when he hears it.

"S'mmy?"

He grits his teeth. "What?"

"The bugs…"

Sam sighs and walks over to his brother again. "There aren't any bugs, Dean. They seem real, but they aren't. Okay?"

Dean blinks long lashes over feverish eyes. "Will you sit with me?"

Oh my god.

"Think the bugs'll go away if you sit with me." He sneezes three times.

And what the hell? Really, just, what the hell? "Will you go to sleep if I sit with you?"

"Yes," Dean says, nodding like an eager child.

Sam exhales long and hard before climbing onto the bed next to his brother. Dean coughs and snuggles into the crook of Sam's arm, like that's right where he belongs.

"Y're tall," Dean mumbles. "When'd y' get so tall?"

"On Tuesday. Close your eyes." Sam listens to Dean's congested breathing, waiting for it to even out into sleep. But it never does.

"Sammy?"

"Sleep, Dean," Sam whispers, as if the volume will help anything.

"Will you tell me a story?"

Oh. My. God. Sam doesn't answer. Doesn't move. He won't kill this feverish mess of a brother sitting in his arms. He won't.

"Sammy. Tell me a story, Sam," Dean says, like Sam must not have heard him the first time. "Sammy. Sam. SAM."

"What, Dean? I'll turn on the TV, okay?"

"No," Dean whines, and coughs again. "That hurts my eyes and my head. Tell me a story, okay?"

"Dean…"

"A STORY, SAM," Dean demands, looking up with those glassy green eyes. "A STORY."

Shit.

Sam takes a deep breath. "Once upon a time there was a guy named Billy Joe and a girl named Bobby Sue. They were hooking up and spent all of their time getting high and watching TV. But then, one day, they got bored. They went to El Paso to rob a house. But the homeowner tried to stop them, and Billy Joe shot and killed him. So Bobby Sue, she took the money and ran."

"Sammy?" Dean interrupts. When he looks up this time, his eyes are half-lidded.

"Yeah?"

"Is this a Steve Miller Band story?"

"Maybe."

Dean snuggles even closer into Sam. "You're the best brother ever."

Sam smiles and shakes his head. "So Bobby Sue took the money and ran. But there was this detective named Billy Mack…"

When Sam finishes the story, he looks down and sees that Dean is sound asleep.

Nope.

Sam won't kill his brother.

Not today.


	3. Condensation

Prompt: Dean's coming down with something. And is sad. Ellen checks for a fever by kissing his forehead. Dean is putty in her hands.

"Condensation"

"You okay?"

Dean uses a finger to wipe a train of condensation down his beer bottle. Like tears. "Fine."

"You want to go lay down in one of the rooms out back?" Ellen offers.

"No." _Yes._

Ellen nods and continues cleaning. She hums while she works. It's a soft, soothing tune that reminds him of lavender and vanilla.

Soon the Roadhouse is clean and the only things out of place are Dean's beer bottle and Dean himself.

Ellen approaches and invades his personal space, but he doesn't have the energy to pull away. She puts a cool hand on the back of his neck. He slouches as tension leaves his aching body. Before he can stop her, she's pressing a light kiss to his temple.

"That's some fever you're runnin', sweetie."

Dean's head falls onto her shoulder. He shivers.

"Come on," she says, gentle fingers tugging through his hair. "You need sleep."

They walk with one of her hands on his back. "How'd you know?" he asks.

"That you're sick?" When Ellen smiles, it's sad. "I'm a mom, honey. Plus, I figure healthy Winchesters don't let beer bottles sit out long enough to form condensation."

Dean lets Ellen tuck him into bed.


	4. Home

Prompt: Gen (or mild Sam/Jess is ok). Dean and Sam remain in contact during the Stanford years, with Dean dropping by to visit between hunts. Sam's place becomes sort of a home base for Dean. More times than not, when Dean returns "home", he's injured, sick or just plain exhausted. Sam takes care of him as much as he can during those times.

* * *

><p>The first time it happened, he came home to Jess sitting outside with her cell phone in her hand, looking lost on the steps to their apartment.<p>

"What are you doing?" he asked. The late spring air was heavy with the freshly mowed grass that always made her sneeze.

She passed the phone from one hand to the other and back again. "There's a guy here. Says he's your brother."

Sam's heart ripped in half so if could lift and sink at the same time. "Dean?"

"You have a brother?"

"What is he…" He tightened his grip on the strap of his backpack. "Is he okay?"

She sneezed. "Why didn't you tell me you have a brother?"

"Bless you."

A few strands of hair slipped out of her ponytail holder as she waved toward the front door. "I thought he was lying. Crazy. I was this close to calling the cops. How could you not tell me that you have a brother?"

Sam turned toward the parking lot. He'd walked right by the Impala. Almost like he didn't expect to see world collide, so he didn't. "If you thought he was crazy, why'd you let him in?"

The pause lingered too long. "Because he's hurt."

The half of his heart that hadn't dropped yet did then. "Bad?"

"He said he's okay." She sneezed again. "Ugh. Grass."

"We should go inside," he said without moving his feet. "I'll introduce you to my brother."

"Your brother," she said without getting up.

"Yeah."

Another pause. "Okay."

Then they walked through the front door together, tracking grass clippings in on their feet.

* * *

><p>That time it was 14 stitches to the side and a badly broken leg.<p>

"What happened to him?" Jess asked when the cast was still drying and Dean was passed out on the pain killers that made him lose Go Fish three games in a row.

"Fell."

"He told me it was a bar fight."

Sam stacked the playing cards neatly on the coffee table. When he put a couple of throw pillows under his brother's casted ankle and covered him with a blanket, Dean didn't stir. "Fell in a bar fight."

Jess stood and wrapped her arm around Sam's waist, gathering the fabric of his T-shirt in her fist. "He can stay, you know. As long as he needs."

He swallowed hard. "Why'd you ask what happened if you already knew?"

In the parking lot, a car alarm blared, then silenced. "You both smile the same way. A little bit sad."

He kissed the top of her head and tasted shampoo. "Thank you for letting him stay."

Dean stayed for almost two weeks. Jess made his favorite foods. Sam wrapped his cast in garbage bags and helped him shower. Dean made flash cards and quizzed Jess before her psychology midterm. They watched movies and made popcorn and Dean ate all the burnt pieces.

Then one morning he was gone, leaving nothing but the indentation of crutches in the carpet like rubber stamps.

"Do you think he'll be back?" Jess asked. They stood on the front steps, staring at the place where the Impala used to be.

Sam wove his fingers through her hair. "Don't know."

That evening, Sam accidentally set the table for three.

* * *

><p>It was a few months before Dean showed up again.<p>

No broken bones, but bruised from head to toe and screaming his way through nightmares that wouldn't let him rest.

Jess made herbal tea. Dean drank it even though it didn't help. Sam traded out bags of frozen peas and corn for the worst of his brother's bruises.

Jess didn't ask what happened. Sam and Dean didn't tell. It was only a few days that time. Too long and not long enough.

* * *

><p>A few weeks later, Sam came home to the Impala in the parking lot and Dean asleep on the couch with his head on Jess's knee. Garlic from last night's pasta dinner hung loosely in the air.<p>

"He's sick." Her voice was soft, but Dean still stirred before settling out again. "Found him sitting outside. We should really give him a key."

Dean could pick his way through the front door lock in 3 seconds flat. "Okay," Sam said, grateful that he hadn't.

"Go make a copy at the hardware store. And pick up some cold medicine on your way back."

Sam turned to leave, but paused with his hand on the door. Dried blood marred the surface of his brother's boots. Dean's blood? Someone else's? Some_thing_ else's?

"Sam?" Jess called.

"Yeah?"

"Orange juice. He should have orange juice."

Sam swallowed hard and looked up. "Okay."

Then he went and got a key and cold medicine and apple juice because that's what Dean liked best.

* * *

><p>Next it was the broken ribs after Christmas.<p>

Then the flu in February. Jess was out of town with family, and Dean spent the whole visit complaining about Sam's chicken noodle soup and bugging him about putting a ring on Jess's finger before she could get away.

The next time, he wasn't sick or injured, just worn down from too many hunts and not enough hours in the day. He slept for almost two days straight, ate a week's worth of calories in one meal of Jess's homemade chicken and dumplings, and said goodbye before leaving.

His appearances lost their element of surprise, but never their edge of sadness tinged with hope.

* * *

><p>This time, Sam rubs at the pillow marks on his cheek as he walks into the living room and finds Dean asleep on the couch, still wearing his coat and shoes. A quick inventory reveals no wounds or disfigured limb, but sometimes the inside is worse than the outside.<p>

While Sam closes the blinds against the morning sunlight, Dean stirs.

"You awake?" Sam whispers.

Green irises appear for only a second. "You got a new couch." The raspy quality to the words points toward illness rather than injury.

"That old thing was so ratty. Like this one better?"

Dean grunts approval.

"Good. You okay?"

A cough. "Yeah."

"Sick?"

Another cough. "Yeah."

Sam relocates his brother's shoes from feet to the floor beneath the coffee table. "Need anything?"

When Dean's eyes open again, they shine fever bright. "You got lines on your face."

Sam rubs harder at his cheek. "Slept so good I didn't even hear you come in."

Heavy eyelids fall shut. "Ninja."

The throw blanket on the back of the couch stretches far enough to cover Dean from shoulders to toes. "Get some rest."

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

The wait lasts so long Sam thinks he lost his brother to sleep. But then Dean says, "The old ratty couch was good, too."

Sam smiles and heads into the kitchen to check the cupboards for chicken noodle soup and the fridge for apple juice.

He's standing over a pot on the stove when Jess walks in wearing one of Sam's T-shirts that smells like her. She smooths the skin over his cheekbone with her thumb. "Dean's here."

"He's home."

She takes the spoon from him and stirs, the noodles, chicken, and broth swirling together perfectly.


End file.
